Read The Randolph Legacy Online
Authors: Eileen Charbonneau
The Randolph Legacy (45 page)
As the schooner Opal approached Windover’s dock, Judith’s arm
wound through Ethan’s. He drew her close, grateful for her warmth. Beside them, Captain Atwater frowned. “Don’t allow the Randolphs to keep you long from home,” he advised.
wound through Ethan’s. He drew her close, grateful for her warmth. Beside them, Captain Atwater frowned. “Don’t allow the Randolphs to keep you long from home,” he advised.
Home, yes.
Richmond was home, despite this man’s disagreeable mother. Even she had served her purpose, Jordan said, proving there was one woman in the world Ethan Blair could not charm. Not even an egg from one of her blasted chickens. She’d eyed his coins as if they were made of wood. Her son was eyeing him that way now, as if he were a fraud. How had he peaked this family’s ire?
Richmond was home, despite this man’s disagreeable mother. Even she had served her purpose, Jordan said, proving there was one woman in the world Ethan Blair could not charm. Not even an egg from one of her blasted chickens. She’d eyed his coins as if they were made of wood. Her son was eyeing him that way now, as if he were a fraud. How had he peaked this family’s ire?
Judith smiled. “Might we expect assistance if we wish to break free, Captain?” she asked.
The merry lines around the man’s eyes stilled. “You’ll have it, Mrs. Blair. Your very own Captain Atwater is ever at your service, and a true friend of Friends.”
Ethan watched Judith’s eyes. What were they saying to each other behind the words, the big blond captain and his own wife?
“Oh, Ethan. Look.” She squeezed his hand, distracting him.
Tin lanterns illuminated the dockside at Windover and lit a path to the big house. Aaron’s strong bass voice led a song of pulsing sadness. More of his life as that boy Ethan Randolph invaded Ethan Blair’s being. The worry came with it—that he would forget the new man he was becoming by the grace of Fayette and Jordan Foster, by the love of Judith Mercer. That, so far from the brutal slave coffles of Richmond, here—where his father’s slaves were well treated—he would forget his promise to Aaron’s family. And that he would forget things he needed to know to protect his wife and keep her beside him.
The slaves’ song was about sailing. Sailing over Jordan. A river—in the Bible. Was the doctor named for that river? Ethan wondered. He hoped his mother would marry Jordan Foster once his father completed this last business of dying.
The song. The rich voices. Aaron’s wide, surprised grin as he recognized
them. These things, not any grand illumination view of the big house, made him feel as if he was home.
them. These things, not any grand illumination view of the big house, made him feel as if he was home.
Ethan’s eyes were so intrigued by the tiny shafts of light that laced through the webbing of Judith’s shawl that he almost didn’t catch her when she lost her footing on the dock.
She laughed that fine, spun-silver laugh of hers. “I’m only finding my land legs!” she chided as he lifted her into his arms.
“It’s not far, just over the mud, to where the shell path begins. Please allow me, Judith. You are not half the weight of Jordan Foster, and smell much sweeter.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder.
“When will it stop, this courtship? Do you not know you have me fast in your hold, Ethan Blair?” she confided at his ear.
“Nothing is fast.”
She touched his cheek. “Well, I will not argue this notion, since it grants me such a sweet result.” Her hand wove inside his waistcoat to find his trousers’ brace. She held it in her strong, steady grip. That was fast, he realized, that grip she had on his heart. Aaron, after scanning his leg’s ability to bear an extra burden, retreated, motioning Micah and Elwood back as well.
Ethan reluctantly set his wife back on her feet when they reached the path. He took her hand impulsively, and kissed into the palm.
“God keep you here at Windover, Judith Mercer,” he whispered.
“And you, beloved,” she returned his prayer, before taking his arm. Together, they faced the big house.
“How fares my father, Aaron?” Ethan asked as they walked.
“Poorly, I hears, sir.”
“Hear? What do you say? And my mother? And Martha?”
“Got no say. We ain’t none of us been allowed in the sickroom lately, sir.”
“What?”
“By order of your brothers, sir.” Ethan felt Judith’s grip on his arm tighten.
“Where are my brothers?”
That question elicited a smile. “Off to the Harrison place for a game of cards, sir. Didn’t think you’d be coming after dark, I expect. Posted their people on guard, though,” he warned, opening the riverfront door of the big house, “and their doctor be inside.”
They entered. “What doctor?”
“Mr. Evans, sir.”
“Evans? Does he yet live?”
“White wig, black robes, purges, bleeding basin, and all.”
“Mon dieu,
are they trying to—?”
are they trying to—?”
His alarm was spiked by his mother and sister’s joint cry of protest from outside his father’s door. Ethan’s hand swept the curve of Judith’s face.
“Yes, go,” she encouraged, nodding, releasing him.
He took the stairs two at a time and arrived, pounding at the door, with Anne and Sally anchored at his coattails. He heard the inside lock released, peaking his anger higher. The bespectacled doctor opened the door, smelling of blood, looking smaller than Ethan remembered. No, it was he who was taller now.
The black-robed man pursed his lips. “How dare—”
“—you lock this door against my mother in her house, sir?” Ethan finished. He shoved his way past the physician and entered the foul-smelling room. Winthrop Randolph was buried in his bed, his head swaddled in lint and wrappings, his right arm exposed, purple, bleeding from a vein not yet collapsed from the doctor’s attempts to drain him dry. Ethan did not want the women to see this.
“Sally,” he directed gruffly, “open a window. Mother, would you fetch me your brightest lamp?”
The doctor roared his protest. “Jubal, Calvert!” he called to the servants who had tumbled into the room along with Ethan and the women. “Stop this madman bent on murder!”
When Ethan turned sharply, the doctor yanked in a startled breath, then held up the knife he’d been using to bleed Winthrop Randolph. Ethan grasped his wrist, shoved him against the wall. He directed the knife against the physician’s own throat. The man’s wig went askew.
“The third son,” Ethan informed him quietly. “You’ve heard something of me lately, sir? That I’m very good with knives … but subject to fits?”
The man’s frightened eyes searched for his brothers’ servants. Ethan smiled, continuing. “If a fit should come over me in my present agitation, and this knife slip? Well, black can’t testify against white, can they, Doctor? Before anything untoward should happen, I suggest you all return to my brother Winthrop, with my thanks for your efforts. Yes?”
“Yes,” the grizzled man croaked out. Ethan relaxed his hold, recovering the knife from the doctor’s deadened grip. Then he eased his stance, giving the man just enough room to slip past.
Ethan flung the knife on the table of instruments. “Your chamber of horrors will follow,” he said to the retreating, black-winged form.
Judith stepped into the room. Stopped—by fear. How much had she
seen? The look in her eyes. He’d seen that look before. He glanced down at his bloodied hands, afraid to touch her with them.
seen? The look in her eyes. He’d seen that look before. He glanced down at his bloodied hands, afraid to touch her with them.
“Another window, Sally,” Ethan directed, “my wife is not well.”
His father’s fingers grazed his. Ethan bent over, listening for the frail voice within the wheeze that was left of Winthrop Randolph’s demanding bass.
“You’ve come back.”
“Yes.”
“I need you.”
“I’m here, sir.”
The gentle breeze from the windows cleared out the scent of death as Ethan worked, stopping the blood flowing from his father’s arm. He sensed the brightness of the lamp, his sister’s grief and guilt. He was working for Sally more than for the old man, he realized, as he removed the putrid wrappings from his father’s head. She must not feel herself responsible for this. The swollen bruise had turned yellow. Where was Judith? Judith must help his sister not to blame herself.
His mother’s fingers pressed his shoulder. “Aaron’s brought her to your rooms to rest,” she assured him as if he’d voiced his thoughts of her. “She’ll understand better when she wakes, my darling.”
He nodded. How could he ever expect his gentle Quaker wife to understand his family, to understand himself in one of his Randolph rages? Had Judith again seen him as a killer?
The glassy eyes of Winthrop Randolph entreated him. Ethan took the bloodless hand. It reminded him of Mrs. Willard’s. He skimmed his thumb over the knuckle.
“You’ll help me die, Ethan, if it’s my time?”
“Of course. Even if it is not.”
“Not? Will I recover?”
“You have recovered from all but the effects of your doctoring. Perhaps you can rescue yourself from Hell once more, you disagreeable old man.”
A thin smile appeared. “Has my wife gotten her way at last? Are you made a doctor? Has she fostered you out to that scholar-turned-Scots-trained-physician?”
Ethan let out a string of French curses in response.
Winthrop Randolph grinned his satisfaction. “Oh, stop your fussing,” he reprimanded. “You’re safe. Think you your women are the only ones who can harbor a secret?”
Later, Anne Randolph stood over Ethan, her long fingers lacing through his hair. “Sally and I will look after him now. See to Judith. Go to bed.”
He glanced into the night shrouded in clouds. “My brothers—”
“—are too drunk to find their way home from the Harrisons’. Sally and I will not leave him. If they return, we will send for you.”
“All right, then,” he agreed, rising unsteadily to his feet. He met his sister’s shining eyes. “Don’t worry,” he tried to assure her, “it will take more than a child’s toy to bring him down.” She hugged him close, this woman who would always think too much of him, who would never harbor a suspicion. The spoiled boy in him wanted only her love. But he was not that boy. He was a man, who must face the woman in his bed with courage and understanding.
H
e tried to enter the darkened room silently, though his leg dragged behind a little. He looked down at the halo of soft white hair, to his wife’s sleeping face. A little fuller, he thought, though whether it came from weeping or the child within her, he was too tired to try to ascertain. Should he lay down beside her? Would she scream at the touch of her father’s murderer?
e tried to enter the darkened room silently, though his leg dragged behind a little. He looked down at the halo of soft white hair, to his wife’s sleeping face. A little fuller, he thought, though whether it came from weeping or the child within her, he was too tired to try to ascertain. Should he lay down beside her? Would she scream at the touch of her father’s murderer?
He would have had no such thoughts at the lightkeepers’, or in Richmond. Only here. In this poisoned place. He was about to turn away when she shifted in her sleep, curling deeper into herself. Her blanket slid away, revealing her strong legs’ beautiful, curving form through the white of her nightgown. Higher, her soft, bulging child-space. Cold—she might become cold, revealed that way. He would cover her, cover her only, then go, find another place to sleep. But when his hand reached her hip, she touched it.
“Is he dead?”
“No. I think he will survive this.”
“Truly?”
“If he wishes to. And I think he does.”
“That is a great blessing.”
“Perhaps.”
“Ethan.”
There, that slight reprimand in her voice. “I cannot rejoice,
madame.
I have lived under this man.”
madame.
I have lived under this man.”
“A child has. Not you.”
“Open your eyes wider. I am that child, Judith Mercer.”
She sat up slowly. Her arms, bare, white. As beautiful as the moon. “Ethan, forgive me. Please.”
He shifted his gaze to the stray strands from her braid glistening against the pillow. “There is nothing to—”
“We both know there is.”
“I drew no blood from the physician,
madame.
What you saw was my father’s purged blood.”
madame.
What you saw was my father’s purged blood.”
“I know. I know that now. Ethan. What I saw—thought I saw … It was because of the knife, the blood, harkened back … Ethan, it was momentary. Like a dream.”
“Like a vision.”
“Yes. Of the past. It does not have dominion over me now, husband. It will never again.”
He did not believe her.
“We are not strangers to trouble, you and I,” she continued. “But I am not used to it coming this way, from within a family. Help me to understand.”
“I—Judith, I don’t understand it myself.”
She took his hand, the one that had held the knife to the doctor’s throat, and brought it to her lips. “Then come to bed. Understanding can wait for the morning. Keep my back from the cold, sweet husband.”
H
e slipped on his boots in the predawn light. He wanted to bring Judith some of Martha’s corn pudding, flavored with honey, to ease her sickness, to make her feel treasured here, in his troubled childhood home. To thank her for receiving him into her ripe, powerful, changing body. He was deciding if he should offer her the pudding hot or cooled to lukewarm as he headed through the dining room toward Martha’s kitchen. He wasn’t alerted to the footsteps until it was too late.
e slipped on his boots in the predawn light. He wanted to bring Judith some of Martha’s corn pudding, flavored with honey, to ease her sickness, to make her feel treasured here, in his troubled childhood home. To thank her for receiving him into her ripe, powerful, changing body. He was deciding if he should offer her the pudding hot or cooled to lukewarm as he headed through the dining room toward Martha’s kitchen. He wasn’t alerted to the footsteps until it was too late.
His towering brother pinned him against the wall. Winthrop Randolph’s mouth reeked of bourbon. When he spoke, Ethan saw that one of his canine teeth was broken, still inflamed. A recent altercation at the card tables. Still drunk and hurting besides. This would not be good.
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